


Care and Keeping

by ami_ven



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:53:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One way that Sherlock doesn’t come back from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care and Keeping

For a moment after John opened the door, he thought he was hallucinating. Given the kind of day he’d had— no, not just that day, that whole _year_ — it was a distinct possibility. And John would freely admit, if only to himself, that the one person he would most likely imagine standing on his front step was Sherlock Holmes.

Except… he probably wouldn’t have imagined him like this. Sherlock’s clothes were too big, a faded t-shirt and blue jeans, torn and dirty, like his ragged curls. There was a large yellowing bruise around his eye, and a trail of cuts and burn marks that disappeared under his sleeves. He wasn’t even standing up straight, but slumped a little, looking tired and nervous, and John knew he would _never_ have imagined him in a state like that.

Which meant that this was real.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, involuntarily taking a step closer.

“John,” the other man replied, hesitant. “I realize that this must be something of a surprise—”

“A surprise?” John interrupted. “You were _dead_ , Sherlock! How— _Why_ —?”

He broke off abruptly as Sherlock swayed on his feet, shivering even though the day was unseasonably warm. 

“You were dead,” John repeated, softly, and pulled him into a fierce hug. “God, _Sherlock_.”

He was skinny, much too skinny, and John could feel more half-healed injuries beneath Sherlock’s t-shirt, but his hands were resting on warm, fabric-covered skin and he could feel the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest with every breath he took. Finally, reluctantly, John pulled away.

“Inside, now,” he said, firmly but gently. “You need to eat something, but you should wash up first, and I’ll need to take a look at some of those injuries.” John paused, frowning, when Sherlock didn’t move. “What?”

“You’re planning to… look after me?” Sherlock asked. “Aren’t you angry with me?”

“I’m _furious_ with you,” John said, honestly. “But that doesn’t mean I care about you any less.”

“He was going to kill you, John,” said Sherlock, in a rush. “Moriarty. You and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He had snipers and—”

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” said John, and pulled him into another hug. This time, Sherlock hugged back, long fingers curling into the fabric of John’s jumper. Sherlock shivered again, and John pulled them both inside, kicking the door shut behind them. He shifted their position so that he could pull one of Sherlock’s arms over his shoulder as they started for the stairs.

“I can walk, John,” Sherlock protested, but he didn’t try to pull away until they’d made it upstairs and John nudged him toward the bathroom. 

“If you’re not back out in ten minutes, I’m checking on you,” said John. “And bring the first aid kit out with you.”

When the door closed behind him, John went into the kitchen to make some tea and reheat a bit of leftover stew. The kettle whistled and John pulled two mugs from the cupboard— then stopped.

How many times had be done this? Gotten out two cups only to remember after he’d poured the second one that there was nobody there to drink it?

John looked up at the sound of footsteps to see Sherlock standing in the kitchen doorway, wearing John’s pajama too-short bottoms under his own bathrobe. He set the first aid kit on the table, then looked at the two mugs beside it. “John—”

“Sit and eat,” John interrupted, getting the bowl of stew from the microwave and setting it in front of him. “And let me take a look at your ribs.”

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock protested. “I’m quite capable of patching myself up when it’s needed.”

“Uh-huh,” said John, skeptically. He pressed one hand flat to Sherlock’s side, just above his hip— the detective let out an involuntary hiss and arched away from the touch.

“Very well,” Sherlock relented. He shrugged out of his bathrobe and reached, carefully, for a cup of tea.

Sherlock’s back was an array of untreated scrapes and fading bruises, days or weeks old. John opened the first aid kit and set to work cleaning what he could. His patient was completely silent.

“Why didn’t you tell me, afterward?” John asked, suddenly. He had both hands flat against Sherlock’s shoulders, applying a large bandage to a particularly deep scrape, and he felt the other man stiffen. “I could have helped. I’m not a genius like you, but I’m not bad in a fight. You could have trusted me.”

Sherlock twisted to face him. “I do trust you, John. You’re the only person I trust! But you’re also the one person I can’t lose.” He paused, then continued, “I had no way of knowing how far Moriarty’s organization went, John. I couldn’t risk having any contact with you until I was sure they had all been eliminated.”

“And if they’d ‘eliminated’ you?” John asked bluntly.

“Then I was already officially dead, and as you had no knowledge that I hadn’t been, you would still be safe,” Sherlock said evenly. “I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to you twice, John.”

John felt most of his anger fade away. “I’m still mad at you,” he told Sherlock. “Don’t think that you won’t be hearing about this— _often_ — for the next several decades, at least.”

Sherlock attempted to look serious, but his lips twitched with a smile. “Does that mean you and I will be together, often, for the next several decades?”

John had a harder time hiding his smile. “If we live that long, I suppose. But if you ever do something like that to me again, you will only _wish_ you were dead, do you understand me?”

Sherlock smiled, a broad genuine smile that wasn’t the slightest bit dimmed by his lingering black eye. “I missed you, John,” he said, honestly.

John huffed out a laugh and leaned in closer. “Never again,” he said, half-threat and half-promise. 

His hands had shifted when Sherlock turned, one still resting between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, the other on the detective’s arm— Sherlock covered that one with his own, and John turned it to lace their fingers together.

“Never again,” Sherlock agreed.

John let out a ragged breath. “Welcome home.” 

THE END


End file.
